


In the Arena

by Servena



Series: Done [2]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Blood and Injury, Captivity, Fights, Gen, Killing, Magic-Users, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Mute!Gene, Muteness, Past Abuse, Self-Defense, Slavery, The Arena, Wandless Magic, Witches, gene's pov, magical fights, witch!gene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 17:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20411308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Servena/pseuds/Servena
Summary: He knows he doesn’t stand a chance against her, not like this.





	In the Arena

He knows he doesn’t stand a chance against her, not like this.

He’s never seen her before, but he’s heard about her like everyone else, and his instincts tell him that the stories are true. She’s had years to hone her skills, to train until she can use her magic like a carefully tuned instrument, striking with deadly precision. In contrast, he’s been doing nothing more than minor spells for months with precious little movement and food in between. And then there are the incantations. His owner had been right about that, not being able to talk was a serious disadvantage.

She was a precious asset to her owner while he was nothing more than an annoying expense. But now they want to get rid of them both just the same.

And a few days before, he thought he wouldn’t care. He had been ready to give up, to surrender instead of keeping up the struggle against an inevitable fate. He’s been so tired recently.

Even now he can feel the temptation to simply let go, to not even try to get up again. There’s pain stinging in his left shoulder from the strike and he can taste the copper of blood in his mouth where he bit his tongue. His back hurts from the moment where he struck the wall. And the power radiating from her makes it hard to breathe, hard to stay focused.

But it’s different to contemplate your death in a quiet cell from the arena with the roar of the crowd all around him, looking it in the eye. And suddenly he has to think of the red-haired boy and the apple, and what he said: “I don’t think you’re done yet.”

And he finds that there’s still an ounce of pride left in him. There’s no love lost between captive witches at the best of days, the circumstances simply don’t lend itself to it, but now he can feel something akin to hate. That witch thinks she can pick him off like easy prey? He’ll teach her better.

He spits out bloody saliva into the sand, then pushes himself off the ground, clenching his teeth at the way his left arm burns with the effort. For a moment the world spins around him as he gingerly gets back onto his feet, the faces in the crowd nothing but a blurred mass in front of his eyes. The hot air burns in his lungs as he takes deep, desperate breaths.

She gives him that moment to steady himself, at least, whether it’s out of courtesy or arrogance. Her mistake.

He knows he can’t best her at this game they’re playing, this careful dance of attacks and defensive actions, she simply has too much experience. This way she’ll until strike him down again and again until he won’t be able to get back up, until she can finish him off with ease.

So he doesn’t even try. Instead, he curls his fingers into fists and wills out every ounce of magic left in him. This is where he has the advantage, because he hasn’t depleted his reserves in any way that matters for such a long time. It had been frustrating, brimming with energy almost to the tips of his hair without being able to do anything with it. Now it’s his best chance.

It’s dangerous, what he’s doing, calling the magic outward with only an illusion of control. A witch that empties its reserves completely dies, simply drops dead without even having time to realize its mistake.

But if he doesn’t, he’ll die anyway.

He can feel his body struggling and draws in deep breaths to keep himself from fainting. The energy is crackling in the air like lightning, becoming visible in blue sparks starting around his fingers and surrounding his wrists. He could try to say the incantations in his head and it might work, if not as well as doing it for real, but he doesn’t have the time, he can’t keep this up for long. He’ll only get one shot at this.

So instead, he focuses her gaze on her and wills the power forward with every piece of his mind.

Maybe she’s been waiting for an incantation that isn’t coming, but he can see her eyes widen in surprise, the way she raises her arms for a protective spell that comes too late. The energy engulfs her and knocks her off her feet.

She’s dead before her body hits the wall behind.

For a brief moment he feels sorry.

Then he falls forward, struggling to breathe. His body feels so heavy he can barely keep himself on his hands and knees and for a moment he thinks that this is it, that he used too much. But no, his heart is still beating, rapidly and so hard it hurts, but still beating. His shoulder is throbbing with pain and he can see drops of blood landing on the sand. But he’s alive.

The overwhelming relief he feels takes him by surprise.

And then there’s the boy, so giddy he can’t stop grinning, telling him to breathe (and really, what does he think he’s doing?) and talking about some money he won – really, it all becomes a bit of a blur after that. He doesn’t really understand why he’s there, but a part of him is grateful.

“See?” the boy says (Babe was his name, he remembers dimly, Babe Heffron). He’s still grinning, his blurry face filling his vision in front of the blue sky after he’s finally dropped his effort to stay up and rolled over in the hot sand, “I told you you weren’t done yet.”

And he has to admit that he’d been right.


End file.
